


No Rest

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very tired Blair tries to get some rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Rest

**Author's Note:**

> This is Dawn Pares' fault. 

## No Rest

by Charlemagne

* * *

All he had wanted to do was rest. That was it. Just come home, throw his backpack on the ground, grab a glass of juice, and _rest._ It should have been easy. It should have been the simplest thing in the world, and Blair should have known better. 

He tossed the keys into the basket and left his backpack, that battered companion, on the far side of the door where Jim wouldn't trip on it when he came in. They had had _that_ conversation one too many times, and Blair had no desire to be woken up again by a thud and a muffled curse. Not today. Not after this week. 

His head throbbed, his back ached, and he could swear, _swear_ that his vision swayed in and out with the time of his heartbeat. Thud, THUD. Thud, THUD. Essay exams had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Test the knowledge, really get a feel for the students . . . he'd forgotten how hard they were to grade. How time-consuming. How damned _boring._

And then there had been the stakeouts. Two just this week. Two nights of sitting with Jim in the truck, so close that he could almost identify his partner by the rhythm of his breath, until what? two or three in the morning, and then teaching and then coming home to _essay_ tests. He had probably slept about three hours a day for the last five days, and now it was Friday at noon and he was done for the week and he was _going to bed_. 

He almost laughed, he was so happy. 

First, juice, so that he could look Jim in the face in about six hours and say "yes, I ate something" and not be lying and then . . . bed. Blissful, restful bed. 

He poured the juice and sipped as he walked, tugging at the buttons of his shirt with his free hand. The French door was shut with a gentle tap of his foot, his hair was pulled free of its elastic band, and the glass was set on the bookcase by the bed so he could tug off his jeans and Henley. 

The bed looked like an oasis in an old black and white movie. Cool and soft and welcoming. He had never been so in love with his pillow in his whole life. 

And when he flapped his arm to get his shirt off it flared out and the sleeve caught the edge of the glass and pulled it over. 

Blair yelped, lurching forward to catch the glass, and for one miraculous second he thought he had it, had caught it, had saved himself, and then the glass, slippery with condensation, slipped out of his hand and landed in the middle of the mattress. 

He wanted to swear, but he didn't have the energy. Instead he slumped by the side of the bed, his forehead on the edge of the mattress until he realized that his hair was probably hanging in the juice. Then he sat up and assessed the damage. 

Soaked through. He peeled back the corner of the fitted sheet. Soaked through. Even if he had a change of sheets, which was, let's face it, highly unlikely, the juice went all the way through to the mattress. 

He turned and pressed his shoulders against the edge of the mattress. His brain pulsed against the inside of his skull. His hands shook with exhaustion. He fought the urge to cry hysterical tears. 

It was okay. He'd be fine. It was just orange juice, just a little o.j. on the bed he'd been fantasizing about for the last 48 hours. All his dreams dashed by a citrus fruit, but it would be okay. A-okay, O.J. 

Too late. Crying or not, he was already hysterical. 

Blair pushed himself to his feet and yanked at the sheets, pulling them into a ball at the end of the bed. That would have to do for now, because no way was he doing laundry today. No _way_. He'd just have to sleep on the couch. 

Only the couch was narrow and lumpy and the fabric on it scratched against his skin, something that he hadn't remembered from countless afternoon naps before. When did the couch pillow get this _wierd_ and uncomfortable? Why couldn't his own lovely feather pillow have been spared juicification? Why couldn't he stop thinking about that fucking juice and go to _sleep_? 

He flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and trying to calm his breathing. He imagined that he was Jim, listening to the sound of his Guide's voice, saying over and over again "Relax, relax. You're safe, I'm here." That had a nice sound to it: "You're safe, I've got you." He remembered Jim saying those words to him, after he had eaten the Poison Pizza >From Hell and had gone on some little anthropology-sponsored bad trip. Nothing like a little higher education to really freak you out. That time with the Golden . . . 

With the exception of the Fire People -- the large exception -- that had been nice. 

He stared up into the sunny air, remembering the shouting, and dancing of the demons in front of his eyes, and how reluctantly he had handed Jim the gun. He'd wanted the gun, he'd needed the gun, but he'd given it to Jim, and what he'd gotten in return was worth it. A close dark place where the shouting was muffled by the sound of Jim's voice, and the demons were blocked out by the black front of Jim's button down shirt. 

He'd give up a tank right now for a bed. 

A tank. 

Jim's bed. 

He sat up, gazing speculatively at the loft. Jim had a bed. A big bed. A big blue bed that looked just right to the Blair bear, especially since the Poppa bear wasn't due back for another, what? four hours or so? Blair turned and looked at the door. He could go up there, sleep for three and a half hours, and be back here crashed on this pile of lumps Jim called a couch by the time Jim came in the door. Three and a half hours wasn't a lot, but it would be enough to get him through dinner, and by then his mattress would be dry enough to sleep on, probably. 

Jim would never know. 

He was on his feet before he could even think about that statement, and halfway up the stairs before he remembered that his partner, his roommate, was a Sentinel and _would_ know, would know in a New York Minute. He sat down on the second stair from the top, and bowed his head into his palms. "Someone's been sleeping in my bed," Blair murmured, and then giggled. He was definitely going off the deep end. 

That was okay, he thought, staring through the railing at Jim's bed, at the Swedish blue quilt that hung over the end, at the pastel yellow pillows that Jim had once said Carolyn had picked out to symbolize their union. Jim was the blue, supposedly, and she was the yellow, but now Jim slept here by himself, slept in all that luxury and comfort while Blair was left to huddle on the couch in misery. 

"Fuck him!" Blair whispered. He took three long strides and leapt into the bed, arms flying outward, one hand banging hard on the railing. 

"Ouch," he said, but he was asleep before he actually felt the pain. 

* * *

I've seen a lot of things in the three years I've been living with Sandburg. A lot of things I never expected to see, a lot of things I never wanted to see. A lot of things. I've learned that there is more out there that I ever dreamed of, and that Blair knows about most of that stuff. I've learned to open my eyes a little and take a look around, stop seeing stuff just in black and white and start focusing on some of the nuances . . . start really _seeing_ what's in front of me instead of just trying to avoid obstacles. 

But I never expected to see this. 

Sandburg in my bed. 

I knew he was home the minute I walked in the door. His bookbag by the door, and empty juice glass in the sink-- I figured he was asleep, and when I tuned up and listened, I knew I was right. Sandburg asleep. I also knew he wasn't in his room. 

He's not. He's here, in my bed, curled up around one of my pillows in his boxer shorts. He's on top of the quilt, so I suppose technically he's not in the bed, but Sandburg is the member of this partnership that splits hairs like that. However you want to split it, Blair has fallen asleep in my space. 

Normally, I'd be mad about this. This is a complete breach of my personal space, a total violation of the normal Blair/Jim dynamic. Normally, I would rant and rave and haul his ass down the stairs and into his own damn room, but I'm looking at him, his head bowed against the pillow, hair fanned out behind him, hand clutched in the sheets, and I wonder what happened to him to make him think that this was okay. 

He had a bad week; I know that. We had two stakeouts and he said something about grading which would explain why I didn't see much of him outside the truck or the kitchen. Was it this bad? What about it was bad enough that he would end up here? And why didn't he tell me? 

That's the real question, I suppose. I don't tell Blair much, never have, but then I never had to. Sandburg's a great watcher. He sees things about people that no Sentinel could ever catch, although he wouldn't believe that if I told him. If I were so tired, so lonely, if I needed Blair, I wouldn't have to crawl into his bed to get his attention. He'd have known already. That's probably what keeps me from getting mad at him right now, the knowledge that if I had been in his shoes he would have already known. That and the fact that he looks like a fucking angel lying there. I want to wake him up so I can wrap him in my arms and rock him back to sleep. 

I lean down and reach for his shoulder. 

* * *

He was swimming, swimming in a black sea, when he was jostled. Once, twice. The sea waved and swelled around him. It rocked him again, and it whispered his name. "Blair," it said, softly. "Blair." It tipped him back and forth, back and forth, disturbing him, like someone tapping his shoulder during the good part of a movie. All he wanted to do was float, but the waves kept rocking him. Rocking and talking, "Blair, Blair." 

And then the waves said "SANDBURG!" and he was awake and there was Jim. 

He could barely lift his eyelids, and his arms felt impossibly heavy. "Jim," he said, happy to see his roommate, happy to be drifting again to sleep. "Jim." 

And then he remembered. 

Blair shoved himself up off the pillow, the sweet pastel pillow, with both hands. "Jim," he said, hair hanging in his eyes, drool drying on his cheek. "Jim, man, I'm _so_ sorry." The word sounded blurry, as if they came from a mouth full of cotton. He swallowed. Tried again. 

"I'm so sorry, man. I needed to sleep, and my bed was full of juice and somehow I . . . I'm really sorry, man. I didn't think you would find out. I thought-- _shit_ the alarm clock. I'm sorry." 

Jim sat down on the side of the bed. He looked like he always did: calm, cool, mildly interested in whatever Blair had to say. He looked like an oasis. 

Blair shook his head, rubbing at his face. "I'm sorry, man." 

"How many times are you going to say that?" 

"Huh?" 

Jim smiled, shaking his head. "Never mind, Blair. Never mind. Go back to sleep." 

Blair squinted at his roommate, not sure what he'd heard, not sure what to say so that the wish wasn't pulled from his fingers. "Jim . . . I . . . " He felt Jim's hand in his hair, briefly, pushing his head toward the pillow, and there was no way he was going to resist that temptation. No _way_. The pillowcase rose up to greet him. 

An eternity later, he felt himself slide toward the edge of the bed, and Jim was there again. Blair rolled his eyes up at his partner. Jim had said "lie down" and here he was, lying down, but should he have listened? After all, he had never listened before when Jim had said "stay here, stay there, don't go over there"-- when had obedience become such an overriding desire? He flopped onto his back and stretched, arms and legs spread wide. When he relaxed and opened his eyes Jim was staring at him. Blair sat up quickly. 

"Man, have I told you how _sorry_ I am? I spilled this juice, and I was so tired and the couch was lumpy, and I meant to get up before you got home, but I didn't. I mean, _obviously_ I didn't--" He tried to laugh a little, but Jim just kept looking at him, his face placid. Blair became suddenly concerned with how his hands looked, twisting in his lap. "Anyway . . . I . . . this won't happen again." He glanced up at his roommate again, back at his hands. Jim said nothing. "Look, um, I know you're mad, Jim okay? Just . . . lemme have it, you know? I totally invaded your space here and that's _so_ not appropriate, but I don't think I deserve the silent treatment." Blair lifted his eyes again, and found Jim leaning forward in that "I'm listening" pose. He looked like a big and somewhat distant dog. 

"You want a sandwich?" he asked. 

"Huh?" 

Jim smiled. "I made you a sandwich. Tofu. Sprouts. Mayo. You want it?" He leaned down and picked up a plate off the floor, holding it out. Blair leaned back, suspicious. 

"You made me a sandwich." 

Jim nodded. 

"You found me in your bed, in your totally personal space, man, and you made me a _sandwich_." 

Jim nodded again, shaking the plate a little. 

"I can't believe--you made me a--" 

"Sandburg," Jim said. "Do you want it or not? I'm not going to hold it all damn day." 

"Oh, yeah, man." He reached out and took the plate, pulling back the bread curiously. Yep, sprouts, tofu, mayo. Enough mayo to completely obliterate the health value of the other ingredients, but what the hell? He hadn't eaten all day anyway, not even juice. "Jim, I want to explain how--" 

"You spilled a glass of juice on your bed and you came up here. Eat your sandwich, Chief." Jim pulled a second plate off the floor and took a wolfish bite. 

Blair gaped at him. Jim was certainly handling this well. He hadn't even growled. This _had_ to be a delusion brought on by too little sleep. "How did you--" 

Jim swallowed, looking for a moment like a python swallowing a large rat. "I checked it out. I'm assuming that you spilled it. You aren't sick, are you?" He leaned forward, nose working. 

"Hey, man!" Blair laughed a little. "Down boy. I'm fine. Just tired." Jim nodded and went back to eating. 

"Tough week?" he said, when Blair's sandwich was almost gone. 

Blair bobbed his head, swallowing. "You don't want to know, Jim." He smiled. "I feel a little better now." 

"You want to talk about it?" Jim asked, and Blair's intuition flashed. This was what it was about: the sandwich, the politeness, the total lack of anger on Jim's part. He was _worried_ , man! Worried about . . . 

Blair brushed his fingers off on his thighs. "Jim, I'm-- I'm _fine_. Totally cool. I just had a long week and I needed some sleep. I'm good to go now." 

"Go where?" 

"Wherever. Is there a game on? Or we could go to a movie or something? Or do you have some kind of hot date and you want me out of your bed?" Blair feigned a punch at Jim's arm. 

"No date. But the only thing we're doing is going to bed. I had a hard week, myself." 

"Oh, sure, sure Jim." Blair slid toward the edge of the bed, making to get up. Of _course_ Jim would want his bed back. How rude could he be? Sheesh! 

"Where you going, Chief?" Jim's palm rested flat against his chest, and Blair felt suddenly naked. He had boxer shorts on, he'd been around Jim in his boxer shorts before -- hell, he'd been around Jim in _less_ than boxer shorts before. Why was this so strange, so . . . thrilling? 

"Jim?" 

"I said, go to bed." The hand pushed against his sternum, laying him flat on his back, pinning him down. 

"Um . . . Jim?" 

Blair was rolled to one side, then back again, and he found himself between the yellow and blue sheets, cheek resting on the pillow. Jim's hand rested on his head for a moment, forcing him to close his eyes. He thought he should resist, but he was still half-dead with sleep, and Jim was acting so strangely, he was almost afraid to say anything, say something that might make Jim stop, might make him stand up and order him out of the loft. And that was something Blair didn't want. Although his eyes were closed, Blair knew Jim was leaning down, bent over, face hovering near Blair's ear. 

"Good night, Chief," Jim whispered, and Blair felt his roommate's breath brush his cheek. He was pinned by that soft rush of air, frozen by its warmth. 

"Night," he whispered, not opening his eyes. He heard the light click off, heard Jim's steps down the stairs and the distant clink and clatter of the dishes being washed. He was almost asleep and expecting to hear the dim murmur of the television come on when the side of the bed dipped again. There was a cool rush of air, and then the hot brush of Jim's arm against his. 

"Move over, Chief," Jim murmured. 

Blair scooted closer to the railing, heart thudding in his chest. "Jim? I can go downstairs," he whispered back, unsure why it was so important that he not speak aloud. "I'm sure my bed's dry by now, or I could put a towel over it, or flip the mattress? I mean, I--" 

"Shh." Jim shifted, turning toward him in the dark. "Just . . . shh." 

Blair sat up. "It would be no trouble, man. I mean I could just--" Jim's bare arm thudded against his chest, dragging him back down and pulling him close. He could feel the smooth skin of Jim's chest against his back and, a moment later the weight of one of Jim's legs resting over one of his. Blair wiggled for a moment, but Jim simply tightened his arm and pressed his face into the back of Blair's neck. 

"You wanted to sleep, now sleep," he said. Blair shivered at the rush of breath through his hair. He couldn't help himself, he couldn't not say _something_ about this. The thing after the Golden, that was just Jim being Jim, Jim rescuing him as he had so many times before. And the other times, the times when Jim touched him, well, those were because Jim was a Sentinel, because he needed to make contact with his Guide, but this . . . this was different. And since he couldn't think of anything else, that's what he said. 

"This is different." 

He felt Jim laugh against his back. "Yes, it is, Chief." 

"Okay, so I guess what I'm asking is _why_ is this different this time, and not before? And why now, man? And will it be different tomorrow or will it just be freaky and weird? Will it be embarrassing, because if it's going to be embarrassing, then I'm getting up right now, no matter what, Jim." 

"What are you saying, Blair?" Jim shifted closer, pressing himself along Blair's length, curling around him. Once again Blair was reminded of a python. 

"I'm saying will this night be different? Will it all go back to normal tomorrow?" 

"I don't think so, Chief." Jim squeezed him and Blair could have sworn he felt the warm press of lips against his shoulder. "But tonight will be different." 

"What, um . . . what do you mean?" There it was again, and yep, yessirree bob, that was definitely kissing and it was definitely on his shoulder and Jim was definitely kissing his shoulder, yes he was. Again and again. And again. 

"Because," Jim said, pressing his face into Blair's hair and kissing there, too. "Tonight we're going to rest." 

Blair, curled in his partner's warm embrace, shivering from fresh kisses, startled by recent events and exhausted by a horrible week, fell asleep wondering just what that statement might mean. 

* * *

End No Rest. 


End file.
